


Chasing Tornadoes

by scribeofmorpheus



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Altruism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arrogant Stephen Strange, Brilliant Stephen Strange, Clashing personalities, Co-workers, Doctors & Physicians, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Frictionous Work Place Relationship, Gen, Having Faith, Hippie Spirit vs Serious Brooding Man, Hurt Egos, Maybe some frictious sexual chemistry, Medical Conditions, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Other, Overbearing Egos, Realism, Unrequited Crush, Work Tensions, medical drama, moral and ethics debates in the work place, opposite personalities, or Begrudging Friends, potential love triangle, touching on the subject of anti-vaxxers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-14 08:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20271184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribeofmorpheus/pseuds/scribeofmorpheus
Summary: A disaster brings them together. Their clashing personalities and different outlooks on life threatens to drive them both to the precipice of insanity. Stephen Strange believes only in the dogma of science, but the attending fellow working under him believes in something beyond the realms of reality. Can they set their differences aside just long enough to do what needs to be done?





	1. Prologue

The hairs on your arms stood erect, prickling with new vivacity. Wind blew in from the east: Euros was stirring. Dust lifted off the ground as the howling winds agitate the tarp materials of the parasol overhead. You grabbed a serviette from the box next to the condiments and wiped the cucumber and mint tzatziki sauce off your lip. 

Something was coming.

You could feel it in the heat of the air and the rise in humidity. 

Deeming it past time that you got back, you pulled out a twenty from your purse and secured it under a salt shaker after you took one last bite of your lamb burger before binning the food wrapper and slinging your wicker bag over your shoulder. Your wide-brim hat protected your complexion from the harsh summer rays. 

Beyond the city line, a green sky began to crawl outwards. Random debris started rolling down the tarred road. At first, it was only small objects. Weightless objects like cans and newspapers and runaway articles of clothing. Then it escalated to furniture grinding against the cobbled streets, reluctantly being pushed backwards. 

You riffled through your bag, digging for your keys when the wind suddenly died down unexpectedly. A flash of light struck down in your peripheral and then you heard a roar that sounded like a runaway freight train.

Something was _definitely_ coming.

The TV was relaying the latest weather report on mute. The freak weather had prompted the meteorologists to do a deep dive on the direction of air currents and possible escalations.

You set your kettle on, hand gripping your crystal necklace as you stood by your open window. Wind chimes clanking in a dissonant manner. The grey sky had blocked out the sun and a funnel began to form at the centre of a thunderstorm just beyond the horizon. The thundering shook the photo frames hanging up on the walls.

Your iguana, Spike, startled you by dropping several spice containers from your spice rack. His reptilian growl communicating his discomfort as you picked him up and cradled him against your shoulder. 

"It's okay Spikey boy, it's just thunder," you observed the funnel descend further down from the sky. Chunks of debris mixing into the circulating air. "Just a thunderstorm." 

You weren’t sure who you were trying to console, the fat lizard straining against your arms, or yourself.

The tornado had razed through half the neighbouring farming town to the south. Your pager beeped incessantly as soon as the weather had died down. Without needing to check why, you grabbed your medical badge and called an Uber.

The hospital was abuzz, filled by the smell of antiseptic and bleach. The waiting room was packed and the PA system blared out one announcement after the other with little breathing room between sentences. Swift feet rushed from one corner to the other. The few interns and fellows you could spot inside this chaos looked worse for wear, the stress and humidity making them resemble pruned vegetables.

You walked over to reception, tapping your arm on the counter when you noticed Janice was on duty. "Hey Jan, what's the 411?"

Jan covered her headset with one hand, "Tornado crashed through. Doctor on call is stuck on the other side of a collapsed bridge. Metro General is flying in some doctor to help with the relief efforts." 

_Could it be Christine?_ You wondered.

You frowned, tying your untamed hair back and stowing away your bangles and necklaces. "Who's heading triage?" 

Right then, two paramedics burst through the swinging doors. Janice waved her arms to keep them from stopping, “Don’t bother waiting,” she said. “Just head on through.”

The police officers manning the entrance kept it open for another set of paramedics.

Things were escalating quickly and about to get a whole lot worse.

One of the fellows –Mike- half jogged to oversee the second patient on the gurney. The wheels squeaked, grinding from poor maintenance as he hovered over the gurney. Mike nodded at you as he shot Janice a pleading look. A smudge of soot on his cheek.

“Jan, you gotta get Doctor Weisz back on the phone, stat. We can’t take anymore as it is. We were understaffed to begin with.” He said with a tired lull to his voice.

“Sorry kid, unless you can magically mend bridges, we’re gonna have to make do.”

Mike wiped the sweat off his brow with his blue scrubs as he listened to the paramedics fill him in on the patient’s condition. He applied pressure to the patient’s stomach and asked a series of stand of the mill questions as they disappeared behind another set of doors.

Janice took another call and you waited on jittery legs until she was done, "Mike and a few other interns are the one’s handling triage. You best get in there, they could use you."

Next to go were your earrings as you started inching towards the second set of doors, clocking in your shift card. "Who's senior medical on staff?" 

Janice clacked away at her computer, bringing up the roll call sheet, "According to my logs, now that you're here, it's you." 

You swallowed uncomfortably, handing Janice your bag so she could shove it under her desk. The distant fire-truck sirens were barely audible from inside of this noisy beast’s belly. A new ambulance screeched to a halt at the entrance.

_Great…_

* * *

“You’re sending me where?” Strange demanded as he stared at Christine with large eyes and pulled eyebrows.

Christine scoffed as she made her rounds, “_I’m_ not sending you anywhere, the board is.”

The skin around his nose curled upwards as he refrained from rolling his eyes, “Oh, screw the board.”

“Don’t start with that, you know why they’re keeping a close eye on you, it’s not like they don’t have good reason to either,” she ticked off a chart next to a patient’s room after thoroughly reading the attending physician’s notes.

Strange peered over her shoulder, “You should probably prescribe some probiotics,” he offered his advice freely even though she hadn’t asked.

She gave him a look that told him to back off and he did. Christine placed the chart back in its slot and made her way to another room. He massaged his jaw in frustration as he chased after her, nowhere near done with his rant. “I saved that patients life, Christine and now the board is punishing me for it. it’s bloody ridiculous is what it is! They’re all just bitter because I’m smarter than everybody on that circus show and they know it.”

She spun around to face him, her pen nearly touching his chin, “Yes, you saved that patients life, but you did so with no regard for this hospital’s code of ethics. You acted impulsively and without a seconds thought about the rules you were breaking or the potential backlash we could have faced had the media caught wind of it. _That _is why they chose you.”

He flicked her pen away with his index and middle finger, unwavering confidence twinkling in his eye, “I did what I had to do to save that man’s life.”

“Our jobs aren’t _just_ about saving lives, that’s the harsh reality of it Stephen!” Christine’s voice turned stern, “You could have been fired for your recklessness… and if anything had gone even the slightest bit wrong, the patient’s family would have been liable to sue!”

He shot her a dastardly smirk, head cocked to the side, “But that didn’t happen, did it?” He could see it in the way her face muscles twitched, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with his tantrum.

She grunted in exasperation as she continued down the hallway. He was so sure of himself it made Christine want to pull her hair out at times. “Listen, they’re sending you to aid the relief efforts after that Tornado struck and that’s the end of it. If you want to look at this as some form of punishment to appease your ego then that’s fine by me, but either way, you’re getting on that chopper.”

“For Christ’s sake, Christine. I’m a bloody neurosurgeon! Not some goffer the board can pawn off to some second rate hospital in the middle of nowhere!” His temple was throbbing, that vein of his pulsing to the rhythm of his accelerated heart rate. He was beginning to lose his temper.

“Yes, you’re a brilliant neurosurgeon, no one disputes that,” she patted his chest, feeling his lungs force his ribs up and down in quick movements. She smiled sweetly. “But you were also a gifted doctor before you specialised. Time to get back on that bicycle superstar.”

The sound of plastic gloves stretching off his slender fingers sent smacking noises through the air. Strange wasn’t happy about his new assignment. He was one of the leading neurosurgeons in his field and they were sending _him_ to some small town in the ass-end of nowhere to aid in relief efforts?

“Utterly ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath as he strode to the locker rooms.

Christine watched him storm away with a cheeky smile hiding under her perfectly professional demeanour. Maybe this trip might do him some good after all. She had been right to suggest him for the job. He could do with a little humility. And if she knew her old friend Y/N, he was in for a bit of a painful awakening.

_ _

_ **To be continued...** _


	2. Frozen Lung

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Series Warnings:** poorly written medical procedural, mild delving into spirituality, language, overbearing egos, graphic descriptions of medical procedures. more warnings to be added.
> 
> **A/N:** Quick change to the fic, the reader is actually a Fellow not a Resident, Nurse or Physician

♣

**Four** hours, that's how long you’d been on your feet running from one patient's room to the next.

During your short coffee break, you had heard one of the interns say that the doctors sent in from Metro General had arrived and were making their rounds. You kept an ear open in the hopes you'd hear Christine's name, but you had no such luck. After the day you were having, a friendly face would be a welcoming sight.

Mike, the newest fellow at Grace Fields Memorial burst through the lounge doors and grabbed your half-finished coffee out of your hands and into his. In one shot, he downed all the contents in the styrofoam cup and sighed deeply -hand stretched out to you for a top-up once the cup was empty.

You shook your head and let out a sigh, grabbing the metal coffee pot from the hot plate, "How many hours are you running on?"

Mike stretched and nodded a thank you after his cup was refilled. You placed the pot back on the hob and poured yourself a fresh cup. He glanced down at his watch and counted backwards, "You've been here what? Three, four hours? That makes it close to six hours for me." He moaned something unintelligible into his cup as he chugged the bitter coffee.

You rubbed his shoulder and his body swayed with your motion as if he was a ragdoll, "It's not that bad. Remember the collapsed scaffolding incident last fall?"

Mike groaned into his cup again as he remembered what you spoke of, "Yeah, that was a disaster, but still nowhere near as intense as this. We had more on-call then too. Damned tornado hit at the worst time. Most of the senior staff were at the medical conference at the university in the next town over."

Mike rubbed his eyes and then stretched out of the couch. He placed his cup on the coffee table, dark liquid sloshing out over the rim.

"Hey, you're doing good," you reassured him as you finished your own cup of coffee. You glanced up at the wall clock and rotated your shoulder cuff to work a tense muscle. "I gotta get back out there. Any news on Doctor Weisz?"

"Uh-uh, still dead as a doornail on that front. I've met our relief team though. One of them is a right prick," Mike sucked in air through his teeth.

You bit your lip and cooed out in a teasing tone, "Aww, is Mikey not getting along with the other doctors?"

Mike frowned, "Just the one, actually."

"There's plenty of sand for all of us in this sandbox, you gotta learn to play nice sooner or later."

With a frown, he whipped his head in your direction, "That's not even a saying!"

You ignored his comment, "Who's got you all wound up anywa--"

"Code blue, ICU. Code blue, ICU," the PA system blared with a siren ringing at a lower pitch than the feminine voice coming from the speakers.

"Shit, that's one of mine," Mike darted out of the door and raced passed the crowds of doctors, patients, paramedics and family members cramping the halls.

You were about to follow after him when one of the interns you were supervising today -Arlene- jogged to your side and handed you a chart, "Jan sent me over, said she's got a walk-in. A regular of yours."

You read the name on the top of the chart, "Marcy? Shit… What’s her condition?"

The intern fumbled, too squirrely to admit she didn't have the answer to that question.

Seeing Arlene stand on jittery legs and sweat anxiously next to you made you uneasy, her stressed energies were sapping onto you and you didn't need any more stress as it was, "Arlene, head down to Trauma Two, one of my patients is down there, check his vitals and bandages. Then head over to ICU and see if Mike needs a hand."

Arlene nodded skittishly before jogging away from you, her maroon coloured scrubs melting together with the others.

After looking over Marcy’s chart briefly, you clicked your tongue. You had hoped you wouldn't be seeing her so soon after her last discharge.

* * *

You stepped into Treatment Four and pulled your mouth muscles in a forced smile as you pumped the sanitiser bottle and smeared the colourless, alcohol smelling disinfectant all over your hands.

Marcy pulled the breathing apparatus off her face, the elastic stretching around her full cheeks, "Bet you thought you wouldn't be seeing me so soon." she coughed out in a raspy voice, the grinding of her lungs sounding out prominently through each laboured breath. That wasn't a good sign.

You pretended to be looking over her chart with scalpel sharp focus as you pleasantly replied, "For my favourite patient, I'm always happy for an impromptu visit."

You tucked the chart under your shoulder and checked Marcy's vitals and body temperature. Her skin was pasty and moist, sweat causing her hair to stick to her face.

You made with some small talk to keep the mood light despite finding her fever and shivering lip alarming, "How are you feeling champ -Isn't it mid-terms soon? All those mid-night cramming sessions got the best of you huh?"

"Yeah," Marcy laughed, but that caused her to start coughing even more violently, "Mid-terms are hell."

"You still on the albuterol we prescribed?" You asked her while using the stethoscope to hear her lungs better.

Marcy nodded.

"Good, deep breath," you ordered.

After the chest examination, you looked up to regard one of the fellows in the room with you, "Get a CBP and a chest X-Ray set up." You turned to an intern to add: "Oh and get some blood work drawn up too."

"Yes, doctor," the intern said before rushing out of the room.

"I think I caught a cold," Marcy guessed, her lip sinking into a disappointed pout.

You swivelled round to grab the fellow’s attention before she left, "Oh and uh, can we prep her for intubation just to be on the safe side."

"No!" Marcy shot up, fear in her eyes. "I've been intubated two times before. I'm not gonna go through it a third time.” When she placed her head back on the pillow, she mumbled out: “It won't make a difference anyhow."

You tried to reason with the young woman, "Marcy if it _is_ pneumonia..."

"I know what that means," she placed the breathing mask back on her face. She was done with this conversation.

"Cancel the intubation," you told the fellow and moved on to check the swelling of Marcy's tonsils under her rounded jaw, "Don't worry, it's probably not pneumonia."

Even you didn’t believe your words. A strain in your face meant your smile was beginning to feel painful.

"Hey Marcy, new hair cut?" Arlene swiftly walked into the room and moved over to your ear so she could quietly whisper, "Uh, Y/N, you may want to head to the break-room."

You looked up at her, waiting for something more elaborative, but Arlene just scrunched her face in a weird manner.

"Alright, Marcy I'm going to leave you with Arlene here," you patted Marcy's knee under the blanket, her shivers ran up your arm.

You handed Arlene the charts and draped your stethoscope around your neck before heading down to the break-room.

Walking down the hallway, you heard the same group of EMT’s you bumped into when you arrived at the hospital a few hours ago push in a new patient whose leg’s were covered by a thin sheet. A blotch of stark red soaking at the material in the spot where a whole leg used to be, "36. Male. Right leg amputation!"

"Go to Treatment Six!" Jan ordered them as a resident pushed past you to get to the gurney.

Elroy, the hospital administrator frowned, his hand covering over his cell phone speaker, "Jan, how are all these walk-ins making it through? Set up a perimeter." He said hurriedly before disappearing into another area to bark orders at someone on the other line: "I don't care what your policy is. You get Doctor Weisz and the rest of my staff stuck on the other side of that bridge on a damn chopper and you do it now!"

Through the large glass windows of the break-room, you caught sight of Mike, hand slamming into his palm over and over again as he talked to someone in a less than civil manner. Next to him stood a taller, older and less ruffled looking man. He wore a long-coat, his slender fingers hooked around his pockets as he simply stood there and took Mike's aggressive shouts. He held himself with an air of sophistication that, you thought, made him seem pompous. You tried your best not to judge him by the highbrow he wore.

When you pushed open the door, you could hear Mike's words more clearly, "What gives you the right to waltz in here--"

The tall man smirked, "I'd hardly call performing a stellar tracheostomy a waltz."

Mike scrapped his scalp with his blunt nails, "That's what I'm talking about! You come in here, bark orders around, take over everyone else’s patients and then, on top of that, you have the audacity to challenge my _expertise!_ This isn't Metro Gen pal, you aren't some superstar neurologist here! You're just a guy on loan."

“I believe the defining term in being a relief team is that your job is to _relieve_ other doctors of their stressful workload and take on the cases they are not qualified to handle,” The man remarked matter-of-factly before cocking his head to the side. "Maybe if you were a _resident_ instead of a _fellow_, your hospital wouldn't feel the need to call in more qualified personnel to aid with relief efforts."

Mike was turning a tomato shade of red and you had to drag him out of the break-room by his lanyard to prevent the argument from escalating.

However, before Mike was all the way out of the room, the tall man added: "Oh and it's neuro_surgeon_. Neurologists wouldn't know the right end of a scalpel if it hit them in the face."

"Can you believe that guy?" Mike whispered as he took several breaths through flaring nostrils.

"Don't mind him, he seems like a stick in the mud," you said. "Besides, you've been working nonstop going on--" you glanced up at the digital clock at the far side of the room. "Eight hours now. Take a walk, clear your head, then jump back into it."

Mike pressed his frame against the glass window, his chin pointed to the ceiling as he ran his hands over his face, "Feels like a never-ending nightmare. They just keep coming in and we're stretched so thin out here. Then that arrogant ass-hat came into my space and talked back at me like I was still a doe-eyed med student!"

"Arrogant huh?" You bit down on your lip as you tried to not find irony in his complaint.

"Don't give me that look," Mike whined as you held back a bubbly laugh. "I'm not arrogant. _He's_ arrogant. There’s a difference."

"Hmm, you're just what? A walking encyclopaedia?"

"It's not my fault that I tend to know more than any Tom, Dick or Harry in any room at any given time."

“The picture of humility,” You snorted before shoving Mike, "Go walk it off."

"Yeah, yeah," he said as he dragged his feet away from you.

With one crisis averted, you made your way back into the break-room, retying your hair so any of the stray strands that got loose would be swept back.

"Y/N," you held out your hand for the tall, strange man to shake. He regarded you coolly. Not with distaste, but not with any interest either. That got on your nerves. He really was a whole other calibre of arrogant. You bet he boasted the ego of an entire planet too.

"Stephen Strange, _on loan_ from Metro-Gen," he shook your hand lazily.

"Ahhh," you winced as soon as you recognised the name. He was the ex Christine constantly complained about. So all your assumptions had been correct.

_Drats!_

Stephen noticed your reaction and craned a brow high, "I take it you're familiar with my reputation?"

You pressed your lips together, "Oh, I am. Just maybe, not the reputation you're most known for."

Stephen's eyes darted about as he tried to connect the dots, "I don't follow..."

"I was Christine Palmer's roommate in college," you revealed.

"Ah, the hippie…" he said with distaste.

"I prefer the term non-denominational spiritualist if you insist on assigning titles," you said firmly. “But yes, the very same.”

Stephen couldn't tell if you were being serious or snarky, and honestly, neither could you, but the look on his face was worth it.

Before he could say anything else, the PA system called out: "Doctor Strange to the OR. Doctor Strange to the OR."

At the drop of a hat, Stephen was out of the break-room and striding down the hallway in a speedy gait. Seeing as how Marcy's tests hadn't come back yet, you decided to follow after him to prevent your idle mind from wondering.

The EEG's readings were all over the place. The usual rhythmic beeping of the machines were too quick, irregular. You watched from the theatre while Stephen was being dressed up in his surgical suit by the other attendings.

"What have we got?" He asked through his mask.

The attending sped him through the details, "Patient showed signs of cerebral oedema. Swelling near the hippocampus area. We administered manadol for pain and increased her dopamine drip but there was no change. We prepped her for surgery as soon as we were told we had a neurosurgeon on sight."

Mike walked in, fully prepped and determined.

Stephen turned to Mike, eyes narrowing in distaste, "I don't remember giving you an invite to my OR." The latex blue gloves smacked against his palms before he asked the room, "Where's the resident I was working with?"

Mike wheeled the tray of instruments closer to the operating table, "She clocked out. Did her twelve hours. I'm filling in."

"Fantastic," Stephen retorted laconically before positioning himself in front of the patient's shaved head. "Bet you're glad you had a neurosurgeon on loan after all?"

Mike's jaw tensed as he turned to give you a knowing look and you exhaled in exasperation for him.

The beeping and sound of metal instruments being dropped into the emesis basin was nearly muted by the classical music playing through the speakers. With hot, bright lights surrounding him, Stephen did his best to reduce the pressure around the swollen areas of the patient’s brain.

“What’s your policy on switching up that Bach to some Chuck Berry?” he asked in a breezy manner even though he was in the middle of a very delicate and arduous procedure. Some of the attendings laughed low at his odd question.

Mike sighed, “Unconventional, but then again no one’s ever made a music request during intra cranial surgery.”

Stephen chuckled, “There’s a first time for everything.”

The respirator whined while everyone in the operating room held themselves so stiffly that you almost thought them to be store mannequins.

"Swelling is alarmingly pronounced. I'm surprised she hasn't herniated," Stephen tossed his instruments into a clean emesis basin and the camera's placed close to the brain projected the fleshy pink image onto a TV screen next to Mike.

"Can I have some suction," Stephen instructed Mike. "Right here and here. More."

The patient's BP began to rise and Stephen quickly said, "I'll cauterise this before we go deeper."

Mike's eyes went large with worry as the patient's BP continued to rise. He tried to protest but was cut short, “We’ve gotta stabilise before—“

“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask… _fellow_,” Stephen silenced him and focused on his work.

During the whole ordeal, Stephen's hands stayed remarkably steady. You’d be lying if you didn’t see some merit to his unpleasant behaviour. He’d earned his right to be arrogant and rude, most people were simply raised that way. And even though that side of his personality didn’t sit well with you, you couldn’t deny that his skill was unparalleled to any you’d ever seen before. You worried that you’d soon find another reason to think him admirable.

After the surgery, you and Mike took solace in an empty corridor, wiping sweat off your brows with a relieved groan. You had been so on edge, you hadn't realised how accelerated your heart-rate was until you were in a quiet setting.

"I knew I should have specialised in pathology," Mike joked as he held his knees.

"I need a sedative," you sighed.

Mike laughed forcefully.

Right then, Stephen walked around the corner with a pep in his step, "Self-medicating while on duty, I know a particular doctor who would give me _quite_ the tongue lashing in ethics if she heard me make that joke."

Mike straightened up, his pride set aside for a bear moment, "Listen, we got off on the wrong foot. I'm not averse to setting aside my differences and my opinions of you -no matter how low they are- to admit that you were right… earlier. I'm sorry I pulled rank."

"I usually am," Stephen replied nonchalantly.

"What I'm trying to say is… thank you," Mike held out his hand in a show of good faith.

Stephen looked down at it and wiggled his bloody, gloved digits at him, "Wouldn't want to bloody your hands." His words sounded more mocking than sincere.

You narrowed your eyes at Stephen and he simply winked back at you. Mike’s ears started turning pink.

"My work here is done, she's your patient again," Stephen informed him. "Make sure to keep her stable. I don't want to have to get called back into OR over your incompetence." Having had the last word, he walked away, leaving you and Mike dumbfounded.

"Lord give me strength not to strangle him with his stethoscope!" Mike looked up at the ceiling with his palms pressed together in mock prayer.

“If you don’t, I just might,” You shook your head and kneed Mike’s thigh, "Come on, coffee is on me."

"We work in a hospital, there's no such thing as coffee. Never mind _that,_ the coffee’s free!"

You tittered with no humour, dragging Mike by his lanyard, "Fine, then let me buy you a _free_ cup of whatever stands-in for real coffee in this hospital."

Arlene had found you with your mouth full of a blueberry scone you had bought from a vending machine in the lounge. She handed you Marcy's test results with a downcast face.

"Dammit," you barely managed to enunciate the whole word accurately from all the dry pastry stuffed in your cheeks. You pointed to a sealed bottle of water and Arlene unscrewed the cap and handed the metallic bottle to you. After a few swigs, you concentrated on analysing the test results.

Disgruntled, you walked over to the computers in the lab to have a glance at Marcy’s medical file. There was no logical reason for doing this, you just didn’t have the heart to face Marcy just yet and you thought slaving away over computer files was a better alternative.

Out of your peripheral, a pair of slender, long fingers grabbed Marcy's clipboard off the desk. You didn’t need to turn to see who it was, you knew it was Stephen from the sight of his hands.

He mouthed out the important factoids like he was reading over a shopping list, "Cystic fibrosis. Contracted pneumonia. _Hasn't been intubated?"_ his pitch went high as he craned his head to the side to gawk at you. "I don't think I need to tell you why intubation is paramount in these cases."

"No you don't," you said sharply, ignoring his searching gaze.

"Then why hasn't the patient been intubated?"

"Her name is Marcy and _she_ refused."

Stephen was in a snit, “Is Marcy the name of a new gospel all of a sudden? What does it matter what her name is?”

Your fingers rubbed at your eyes under your glasses, “A person’s name matters. Hers is _Marcy_ and _she_ refused.” You repeated yourself.

He rolled his eyes in frustration, "I wouldn’t care if it was Cher in there who refused to be intubated. You don’t take ‘No’ for an answer in these cases! It's your duty to inform the patient of what the best decision for their well being is. And then you're supposed to help them make that decision, despite what they do or don't want."

“I see your stint at Metro Gen taught you nothing, huh?”

“There was never any _stint_. I was just doing my job. As you should be.”

You took off your reading glasses, the bluish haze that once filtered your vision was taken away with them. "Marcy is entitled to her choice. She's been robbed of so much else in her life, she deserves that much."

"How old is this patient anyway? 20, 22?" He asked.

You nodded, "Just about."

"Right, so you're telling me you were capable of making such important, life-altering decisions at that age?"

You tucked your glasses into your pocket and stood from the chair, "It doesn't matter how I feel about this decision. It's hers. She's made it."

The pads of Stephen’s fingers dug at his forehead to ease the throbbing. With that simple action, you felt the need to explain Marcy's situation further.

"Look, I met Marcy when I was still an intern. She's been in and out of here for years. She's been on the waiting list for half that time. All her life, she’s been waiting for a miracle -we all have- but it just hasn't come… Waiting that long, fighting that long, it can wear down even the strongest resolves. Not that you'd know what that's like. I’m assuming you make it a habit not to know your patient’s names."

“I’m not paid by the hour to be nice and to memorise names. I don’t prioritize relying on hopes and prayers to save someone. I save them with my skills. _Science_ saves them. There’s no reason for me to do more than is needed of me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with leaving a bit of room in your life for faith, Doctor. So far, science hasn’t been enough to get Marcy a viable donor. Unless you’re about to tell me you’ve got a compatible lung you aren’t using, since I’m pretty sure your cardio-vascular system isn’t in use either.”

He leaned in closer to whisper coldly, "You know you'll be forced to put her on a ventilator, though, I suspect, when that time comes, you'll have missed your window to make a difference. Unless you’re about to tell me you can heal the dying by praying the sickness away."

He smacked the back of the medical clipboard on the desk and you jumped, a soft gasp fluttering out of your mouth.

You fisted your hair and shut your eyes for a moment, the sound of Stephen's footsteps receding into nothingness.

* * *

You rapped your knuckles on Marcy's door out of politeness. She was half asleep when you sat down next to her.

Marcy removed her breathing mask, her breaths even more strained than before, "H-hey..."

"How are you feeling?" You checked her forehead, but you knew nothing had changed in her state. Maybe you simply wanted to be physically close to her, to let your strength flow through her.

"Like I could win a marathon," she joked. After a beat of silence, she said the words you’d been dreading to say in your stead, "It's bad, isn't it."

"You've got pneumonia," you said with a glum countenance.

"It's okay, we all knew it was a fifty-fifty shot, right," she struggled to whisper out her words.

You squeezed your jaw with your free hand, "Look, Marcy… I'm not promising things will change. And after a day like today, there probably doesn't seem like much reason to want to stick around and keep fighting the good fight, but… you gotta have faith kiddo."

Marcy chuckled, "Faith? Isn't science your religion?"

"A person can believe in more than one thing and I’m confident things will turn around. I feel it in my bones." you tucked Marcy's hair away from her face. "I've watched you fight CF far longer than I've been wearing this maroon monstrosity."

You both laughed.

You took her hand and looked her in the eye, "If I believe in anything, it's that you _can_ beat this… but only if you consent to be intubated."

Marcy mulled over your words, conflict tightening her facial muscles. After a constricted breath that made you shudder, she replied: "Okay."

You felt a presence behind your shoulder, but you were too overwhelmed by the joy of hearing Marcy consent that you didn't bother turning around.

* * *

You all but flopped onto Jan's desk after punching out.

"Long day?" she deadpanned while her fingers clacked away at the keyboard.

You simply groaned in response.

"Here you go," Jan placed your bag over the counter and you groaned again, head still resting on your folded arms. She huffed before continuing: "A guy named Teddy kept sending you messages. He says he enjoyed your time together and he would like to see you again. He also invited you out for drinks but I took the liberty of cancelling for you.”

You groaned even louder.

“On a less depressing note, I took the liberty of calling your favourite Greek place and telling Mr Elio- Eliptopo- Eliopto..."

"Eliopoulos," you corrected her, lifting your chin onto your arms. “I keep telling you, there’s no T.”

"Yeah, _that_ guy. He'll have your regular all packed and ready to go. You just gotta swing over on the way back."

"I don't suppose you got me an Uber too?"

Jan smiled warmly before pulling her lips into a half-moon, "Unfortunately not, hon. But… I did get a call back from my neighbour, Ed -the guy who’s selling his Prius. He’s willing to lower the asking price after I buttered him up with some cornbread."

“How?” You blinked excitedly.

“_Everybody_ loves my cornbread. Except you… you weird creature.”

"Jan, Jan, Jan, Jan..." you stroked her arm appreciatively. "Tell me why we aren't married again?"

She wiggled her ring finger, "I mean we could, but I don't know how my husband of thirteen years would take that."

"We could share?" you jabbed.

"Because that always works out," Jan chortled. "Get some rest, you look worse off than the people in the morgue."

"Ouch," you snapped your fingers. "Stay those claws."

Interrupting your moment, Stephen rushed out of the swinging doors with a tablet in his hand, he called after you with one arm raised in the air, "Hey Y/N, glad I caught you."

You looped your earrings back into your piercing holes, "If you're about to ask me to go back in--"

"I'm not here to boss you around, I promise," He held up his hands to calm you, Jan scooted closer with her desk chair to listen in better.

You popped your neck by accident as you tried to undo a knot in your back muscles, "Then?"

"A patient in Trauma Two didn't make it. He was a registered organ donor… and a match with your CF patient."

Light sparked in your eyes as water began to fill in your tear ducts, "Marcy got a match?"

Stephen nodded, "We put the donor on ice and we're waiting to prep Marcy for a transplant once all the legal red tape has been cut. I just thought you'd like to know."

A laugh rippled out from your chest as you flung your arms around Stephen's body. It was an awkward and ill-thought-out thing to do, but it had already happened. You could tell how uncomfortable Stephen was from how stiff his lean frame felt wrapped under your arms, he didn’t even try to hug you back. You pulled away and straightened your clothes as you cleared your throat.

"Sorry, that was unprofessional," you bit your bottom lip. "It's just… Marcy's been on the waiting list for so long, I- I… Thank you. I really needed some good news after the day we've had."

"It's a good thing you had faith in her, then," Stephen tucked his arms around his chest and hummed curtly. You could tell he wasn't comfortable with evoking faith into his conversational vocabulary. "I've got to get back in there before everything plummets into chaos. I'll see you tomorrow."

“Yeah, sure.” You stared at nothing in particular for a long pause.

Jan peeked over her computer screen monitor to watch Stephen stride away, "Hmm, if I wasn't happily married to some good dick..."

That brought you back down to earth.

You scrunched your face and tossed a pen at Jan, "Down girl."

Thunder and lightning had abated, leaving the dark sky peaceful and starless. The climb up the steps felt harrowing for your sore feet, but you kept going because sleeping on the step wasn't an option and Spike needed feeding.

"Honey, I'm home!" you called out for Spike while trying to jimmy the keys out of the keyhole. After a few tries, it came loose, but not before your knuckles slammed into your nose. "Ouch!"

You felt the urge to sneeze, to your chagrin, it wouldn't come. With a rustle of brown paper bags, you set your take-out onto the table and grabbed a plate and glass from the cupboard to dish out. Next, you rinsed Spike's bowl and scraped in some cut-up browning banana you had left out for too long and a few leaves of spinach and half a stalk of broccoli.

You carried both your plates to the living room and turned on the CD player. An old audio-book Mike had burned onto a CD for you had resumed from the last scene you'd listened to.

"Spike, you big fat lizard, get in here, you're missing it!" you called out for the large reptile. Through the chiming of bamboo sticks, you could just about make out his trademark growl sounding out from behind your vine infested arbour on your balcony.

You sighed, placed your plate on the coffee table and walked around your couch to pick Spike up, making sure to close the sliding door to your balcony shut. You set Spike down next to his bowl and continued idly munching on your yoghurt heavy meal while listening absentmindedly to the story unfolding over the CD player.

Before Spike finished half of his plate, you had passed out on the couch.

**To be continued...**


	3. Growing Cultures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day after the events of the tornado's destruction sent everything abuzz, Strange finds himself aimless and disheartened by his current situation. Mike deals with a case of the flu and you head out to give flu shots. A normal day. Or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to update this ages ago but the chapter just wouldn't co-operate. Turns out, I didn't realise I was writing the third chapter at the time. Anyhow, I don't know if you'd class this as angst but...let's pretend.  
_Also, vaccinate yo kids!_  
**Hope everyone's being safe and social distancing and wearing a mask. ☻♥**

“Read ‘em and weep,” Marcy smacked her winning cards on the food tray for you to see. “Go fish!”

“Again?” you scrunched your nose as you gathered the cards on the tray and placed them onto the deck. “You sure you aren’t cheating?”

Marcy flashed her pearly whites at you through steady breaths. She was certainly enjoying the win, “Years of practice.”

She looked better today, less pasty, just as pale, but better. It was comforting to see her smile.

“One more game?” She asked with keen interest. You could tell she hoped you’d say yes.

“I already broke the rules smuggling this contraband for you,” you shook the cards then sighed, disappointed in the fact you had to let her down, “Besides, you have to rest, little missy.” You put the deck of cards in its box and then sealed it inside a ziplock bag.

“Rest is boring,” she huffed. “It’s all I do anyway.”

After stashing the cards in your lab coat, you tucked the blanket around her, “Well you need to keep up your strength for the transplant.”

An announcement sounded off from the PA speakers outside the room: “Mike Weschler to Observation Three. Mike Weschler to Observation Three.”

As if summoned by the devil, Mike knocked on the door to Marcy’s room. He nudged his head for you to go out, undoubtedly in too much of a rush to go through decontamination.

You held up a finger and mouthed: “One minute.”

Mike tapped his wrist like his watch was on.

You turned your attention back to Marcy, “I’ve gotta get back out there, but if you need anything...”

Marcy breathed shallow, turning on her side to stare at the wall, “I know.”

Quietly, you walked away, feeling there was nothing more you could say. You tapped the sanitiser dispenser and worked the clear gel all over your hands once you left the sealed room.

Mike shoved his hands in his white coat, “You got a sec?”

“Hey to you too,” you folded your arms. “What is it?”

“Kids,” Mike’s eyes went large as if he’d seen a ghost, a comical shudder followed suit.

You rolled your eyes, “Lead the way.”

The hospital was calmer the day after the tornado struck. Still buzzing with adrenaline-fuelled fellows and tired residents, only now there were more white coats around. More senior staff relieved the stressful work load. Their presence had helped ease the minds of the younger staff members, allowing them more moments to sneak up to the roof for a smoke or time to themselves.

Even though the rooms were as full as the day the tornado struck, the brunt of the more serious cases were moved to the hospital in the town over.

Mike’s hair was dishevelled, a sign of poor sleep.

“Here we are,” he opened the door to Observation Three and waited for you to enter first before grabbing a clipboard.

There was a family of four all huddled together. Of the two children, the oldest –a teenager by the looks of it– was hunching over the edge of the examination bed. The mother was busying herself by wiping down every surface with disinfectant wipes. The father was less on edge.

“Hello, I’m Dr Mike Weschler, this here is my colleague,” Mike droned with no emotion in his voice. He flipped through the clipboard quickly before clearing his throat, not bothering to look up. “Persistent headache,” he mumbled to himself. Then he grabbed his pen and started filling in the form, “Any other symptoms?”

The father leaned closer, as if his voice would take less time to reach Mike if he closed in their distance. “He’s had a fever, and yesterday he threw up twice.”

“Did you try Paracetamol or Ibuprofen for the fever?” Mike said.

The mother eyed him coldly, “We gave him cold medicine, didn’t work. That’s why we’re here.”

Mike scratched his nose, picking up on the mother’s condescending tone. The nib of his pen pressing into the paper harder. The scratching noise of his writing more pronounced.

“What’s our patient’s name?” You interjected as you looked over the teenager’s features and instantly noticed the redness around his eyes, pale skin and shiny forehead. Though that last observation could simply be a dermatological issue like oily skin.

The teenager stayed silent, waiting for one of his parent’s to answer.

“His name’s Noah,” the mother said, a seriousness to her demeanour. From her attire, you assumed she’d be an academic or a teacher.

“Hello, Noah. I’m Dr Y/N. Do you mind if I take a look?”

He shook his head.

_An introvert, _you thought. You could relate.

You felt under his jaw for any swelling. Then you tilted his head side to side. He winced.

“Stiff?” You asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” He answered.

“Anyone you know exhibiting similar symptoms –maybe from school or around–?” Mike asked the room.

“Not that we know of,” the mother replied.

Mike inhaled, “Go anywhere outside your usual routine?”

The mother spoke more sharply, “No.”

You fished out your otoscope and looked into his ears. You sighed in thought. “We’re going to have to run bloodwork, check for cultures.”

The father stammered, “Y-you don’t think it’s…meningitis do you?”

Mike answered matter-of-factly, “Fever, headache and neck stiffness. It is a possibility.”

You put on your soft, calming voice, “_But, _it could also be a common cold. We’ll know more once the tests come back.”

The mother shuffled on her feet, nose high in the air, “And how long do we have to wait?” She wasn’t comfortable in the hospital.

Mike held the clipboard behind his back and plastered on a straight-lined smile, “I’ll get right on it.”

“Excuse us,” you dragged Mike out of the room by his lanyard, discretely. When you were both out of earshot you gave him a tongue lashing. “Show a bit more empathy, Mike. Those parents are probably worried sick.”

“It’s always the parents,” Mike scoffed. “Ironically, when I told my dad I was going into medicine, he suggested paediatrics,” He worked his jaw till it turned red.

Suddenly, Stephen appeared from behind a corner, hands in his pockets, seemingly with nothing to do. He picked up his pace when he saw you.

The clipboard was snatched out of Mike’s hands. Stephen read over the notes and asked: “Have you ordered a blood workup?”

Mike sighed, “It’s on my to-do list.”

“Must be a long list,” Stephen condescended.

“Longer than yours, by the looks of it,” Mike said behind clenched teeth.

Stephen rose a brow and tilted his head to the side. He handed the clipboard back.

The air between then was as prickly as the first time they’d met. Mike was trying his hardest to keep things civil between them. Stephen liked pushing that particular envelope. You imagined it gave him something to occupy his time. Being referee was going to grow old very quick. You could feel it.

Thankfully, Arlene jogged up to you just in time to shift the mood. She handed you a tablet, “Hey…Uh, Dr Weisz put me in charge of doing the drive roster. I need at least two senior medical staff to supervise. I asked Dr Sanje and Dr Cho, but they’re swamped.”

Mike groaned, “Nope, I’ve had enough of kids for today.” He walked away.

“Mike, where are you going?” You called after him

He raised the clipboard in the air, “To exercise my empathetic muscles.”

“Drive?” Stephen looked over at Arlene, his height and hooded gaze made her wring her wrists anxiously.

Her voice went several octaves softer, “F-flu sh-shots. The hospital sends out a van to the school district each season.”

“Wow, you really do that?” Stephen sounded surprised. “And you guys _sign up _for this?”

You signed two names on the roster, “You’re not at Met Gen anymore, Stephen. We do things differently here.”

Arlene accepted the tablet with a nod and hurried on her way. You turned to Stephen and asked: “Do you have any patients?”

“Not many in need of brain surgery here,” he sounded almost wistful.

“Good,” you smirked. A mischievous twinkle in your eye. “How are you with kids?”

You started heading down the hallway.

“Terrible,” Stephen followed, looking particularly perplexed by the question. “Why?”

You held back your need to laugh.

“So _this _is why you asked,” Stephen folded his hands over his chest, looking down at you as though you were the devil himself. He wasn’t at all thrilled about the fact you had dragged him away from the hospital to give out flu shots at a school.

“The alternative would’ve been babysitting,” you poked fun at him. “And my Spike has a tendency to bite _strange_ men.”

“You have a kid?” Stephen was taken aback.

You bit back a laugh, letting Stephen do a little mental gymnastics as you walked away.

He was ridged and out of his element around the kids. It was the first time his larger than life personality seemed grounded, awkward. You loved every moment of it.

“This is a seasonal occurrence?” Stephen asked with a hint of exasperation in his tone.

The two of you were seated on a bench in the cafeteria while you waited for the other Fellows and Interns to clear up the equipment. A small juice box was held between Stephen’s palms. His long fingers appeared cartoonishly large holding the small juice box.

“What Met Gen never ask you to give out shots?” you asked rhetorically.

His brow had been furrowed the entire time, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” You popped the lid off your yoghurt drink.

“Work here. _Live here,_” He shook his head, confounded by it all. “All those years of medical training to wind up here? In a town that’s so…predictable?”

You let out a slow breath, feeling somewhat insulted. “I used to work in the city. I was raised in the city, actually.”

“And you left, willingly?” Stephen guffawed.

“When I first got here, Dr Weisz said that this wasn’t a place for those who wanted to make a name for themselves –to spread their wings. She told me this is where we perch,” you took a long gulp of your drink.

Stephen ruffled his professionally styled hair, “And what’s that supposed to mean? That this is where your career comes to die?”

“That this isn’t a place that puts ambition before practice. Not everyone in this field is in it for the fame.” Your words came off accusatory. 

Stephen picked up on the fact he had offended you. You closed the lid on your drink a little too tight. The ridges of the cap burning your palm. Stephen didn’t apologise, he just looked elsewhere as if pondering life’s mysteries. That annoyed you even further.

_What did Christine see in him? _You wondered.

“Help!” A teacher burst into the cafeteria in a panic, arm pointing behind her. “Earl–one of our staff members–he just collapsed!”

You and Stephen shot up, taking an emergency kit with you.

The man, Earl, was lying on the ground, unresponsive.

“Any medical history we should be aware of?” you asked the woman who led you to Earl.

“I- N-n… I don’t…” She shook.

Stephen got to him before you did. He checked his respiratory rate and pulse like it was second nature, counting the beats with the ticking of the second’s hand on his expensive watch.

“Unresponsive,” Stephen said. “Get the tube, I’ll begin chest compressions.”

You looked over at the unresponsive man, methodically weighing the options. The amount of time it would take you to unpack the tube, get it into his airways, attach the pump and begin to force air into his airways… You didn’t linger on it, it was best to get him breathing now.

Without warning, you leaned over, pinched the man’s nose and began mouth to mouth.

Stephen lost his cool, “What are you--?”

“Begin chest compressions,” you ordered, ignoring Stephen’s glare.

The two of you worked together, no need for extra words. In tandem, you were like a muscle unit. When you contracted he relaxed. And vice versa.

Finally, after more compressions than you would’ve liked to wait through, Earl coughed and groaned to consciousness.

“Wha- happ’n’d?” Earl slurred his words.

“Welcome back,” you flopped back onto the floor, wiping sweat from your brow. “Come on, buddy. You’re coming with us to get a check-up.”

The grey haired man gave no fuss, he got up on wobbly feet, aided by Stephen and said: “Yes, ma’am.”

A beeping sound went off as you helped Earl into the back of an ambulance. Stephen had been uncharacteristically quiet since the whole thing went down. You chalked it up to wounded pride.

The car ride had been uncomfortable. Neither of you said a word to one another. Even if it was wounded pride, he was blowing things way out of proportion.

You wheeled Earl into the hospital with the help of the paramedics, “Sixty-five-year-old male, collapsed from unknown reasons. Slurred speech and incoherence. Had to perform CPR on sight.”

“Earl?” Jan recognised the man.

You walked over to her desk, “Know him?”

“Yeah, my son’s history teacher. Think he has a heart problem,” Jan said.

“Possible heart failure!” You shouted after the residents. One of them nodded in response.

“Why’s he so sour?” Jan looked over at Stephen.

“That’s what I wanna know,” you huffed. 

You pulled Stephen aside.

“What’s the matter with you?” you whispered.

He flexed his jaw muscles, eyes growing smaller and he leaned down to speak in a careful tone, “I specifically told you to use the tube.”

“It would have taken too long,” you protested.

“Do you know _why_ I _specifically _asked you to use the tube?”

You bit your lip, “No, why?”

“Because of Mike’s patient. He’s a teenage kid exhibiting symptoms of either bacterial or viral infection, possibly contagious. There’s a high chance he goes to that school. You could have exposed yourself to a contagion,” he made sure to stress his words so they fell like bricks rather than cards. “But then again, what do I know, since I’m just in it for the fame. Right?”

He was right. Damn him, but he was right. You had thought only of the patient, not the environment.

You couldn’t find anything else to say. Stephen pinched his nose bridge and strode away. The temple on his forehead was throbbing.

And then the second wave hit as soon as you walked into the main wing.

“Do you know how irresponsible this is? It’s not just _your _kids that are put at risk by this,” Mike held his hands on his hips, stance wide. He was in a heated conversation with the parents from earlier. Noah’s parents.

Stephen caught wind of the commotion and butted in, “What’s the issue?–Observation Three, isn’t it?–I’m guessing you got the tests back?”

“Sure did,” Mike sucked in air through his teeth and handed the chart to Stephen.

“Type B…” Stephen sounded worried. “Why wasn’t he immunised?”

“They chose not to,” Mike waved his hand at the parents.

You were about to play referee again, only this time it seemed Stephen and Mike were both on the same offensive team while the parents held their defensive position.

Stephen straightened his back and somehow he appeared taller, intimidating. His professional face was on, and he instantly began barking orders, “Mike, there’s a patient we just brought in, elderly man, mid 60’s, possible heart condition. Make sure they run a blood screen on him too in case this isn’t an isolated incident. Has the CDC been informed?”

“Dr Weisz is making that call now,” Mike sounded defeated.

“Make sure the kid gets a chest x-ray and do cultures for the parents and younger sibling too. Oh, and inform the school,” Stephen grabbed your elbow and led you away from the crowd. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?”

“An isolation unite. Noah tested positive for Influenza B.”

You swallowed.

The testing took a few hours and four Sudoku games before your results came back. Stephen walked into your isolated unit without taking the necessary precautions.

It was good news then.

You sighed in relief.

Stephen hadn’t cooled off yet.

“Lab work came back negative,” Stephen kept both hands in his pockets. “Turns out Earl had a pacemaker installed a year ago. It’s been giving him some trouble for a while. He didn’t come in due to insurance issues.”

“And Noah?” you asked.

“Antibiotics seem to be working. Caught it early enough. He’ll be fine. School only had one other case to report.”¨

There was a beat of silence. Then you decided to bite the bullet, guilt gnawing at your gut.

“Listen, Strange, I wanted to app—”

“You should get some rest,” Stephen cut you short.

You weren’t going to leave until you said your piece. Otherwise you’d toss and turn all night, “But first let me—”

He was avoiding your gaze, “I should go and check on Earl.”

“Stephen!”

He stopped.

You realised, just then, that that was the first time you’d called him by his first name. It felt…personal. No longer simply professional.

He turned to look at you, slowly.

“I—I’m sorr—”

“I was wrong,” he said suddenly. “This town. It’s not as predictable as I thought. It appears there are still some things that can surprise me.”

_Did Strange –Stephen! – Just admit he was wrong?_

You were stunned, pleasantly so.

Before you could think to say something else, he was gone.


	4. Sound Echoes

~

“God, you’re insufferable!” You slammed your clipboard into Stephen’s chest, it was surprisingly firm in a subtle way. You swallowed.

Stephen grabbed your wrist, not tightly, but firm enough to lock you in his grasp. He tugged, you moved forward against your wishes.

“And you’re so goddamn stubborn,” he whispered.

You shook your head, “I can’t believe you went around my back and interfered with my patient! That wasn’t your call. If I wanted your help, I’d ask for it!”

Stephen inched you towards the wall, back pressed to the familiar hospital walls. “You and I both know, I was the more qualified to handle this one.”

_Why is he being so blasé about all this? _Your breath hitched when he moved in a little closer. _Why is he so close?_

“Steph—”

He cut you off, lips prompting a rise in euphoria as soon as they met yours. They were soft, supple. But there was a boldness beneath it. You whimpered, finding it strikingly good. Deliciously good. And then while your head spun and Stephen stole your breaths, your surroundings changed to the familiar navy blue of the OR.

You gasped and pushed Stephen softly, “How did we…?”

Stephen followed your gaze.

A group of surgeons, masked up and gloved up, were performing surgery on a banana. You stuttered, at a loss for words. Stephen shrugged, unphased and then moved his attention back to you. Lips a mere millimetre away.

You recoiled, “Stephen.”

“What?” He asked, somewhat disappointed.

You pointed your ring finger at the operating table, “The banana.”

“Oh, right,” He turned. “How’s our patient?”

A beeping noise sounded out. A fellow spoke: “He’s going into cardiac arrest.” The beeping stopped. “He’s gone.”

“I’m calling it, time of death—”

You were shaken from your sleep by the sudden reorientation. With a loud thud, you landed hard on your ass, the sheets tangling one foot.

You rubbed your eyes, vision coming back blurry and spotted, “What the hell kind of dream was that?” Your fingers trailed over your lips. Dry and chapped and sorely missing the softness of the dream. You groaned, in no mood to deal with some romance drama in the workplace.

You were roused from the floor by the sound of something breaking. With heavy eye-lids and noodle arms, you hoisted yourself up and walked towards the kitchen, the source of the sound.

Rich loam soil and four fragmented pieces of a flower pot lay scattered on the floor. A small root system was peeking out from under the stove; it belonged to a cactus. The _last_ cactus you owned.

You groaned as your eyes trailed up to the former resting place of the now destroyed flower pot and saw Spike’s fat reptilian body trying to slink away.

“Oh no you don’t, you leathery cat,” you hopped over the mess on the floor and grabbed Spike. You held him close to your face so you could stare into his eyes. “What is it with you and cactuses?”

Spikes tongue slithered out then in again before he let out a whiny growl.

You rolled your eyes and scolded him, “If you keep this up I’ll put you up for adoption.” You clicked your tongue in annoyance as you opened up the balcony door and let Spike down next to the arbour. “You stay out here and think about what you’ve done while I make breakfast.”

Spike made another lazy growl before moving away from the door at a snail’s pace. You hastily swept up the soil from your wooden floors and set aside the broken ceramic pieces in case you wanted to use them for another DIY home decor project.

While you put together a fruit bowl for breakfast, you noticed you hadn’t checked your voicemail. As you squeezed out the last two drops of honey onto your breakfast, you listened absentmindedly to the voice messages while making a mental checklist.

“Hey, Y/N…” Teddy’s soft voice reminded you of a lounge singer who smoked too many cigarettes in between sets. The kind of swaggerful baritone that belonged to men like Frank Sinatra or Nat King Cole. Ironically, Teddy’s face matched the softness of his name more than it did his pitch in voice. “I sent a few messages but I suppose you were on shift. That tornado…messy stuff. My cousin is local fire department, she told me—”

_Remember to pay Mr Eliopoulos for the takeout. _Teddy’s voice dissolved into white noise as you chewed your food. _Get some bills out the ATM to keep on hand._

The next message played after a beep and you weren’t the slightest bit sorry you didn’t fully catch the rest of Teddy’s message.

“Y/N, it’s Irene.” –You froze. For a second– “I don’t know if you deleted my number after the last time we talked or not so…Yeah. It’s Irene,” your sister’s voice was a startling surprise to hear. She sounded as lively as a doornail, probably all the hours spent banging her head instead of her gavel in the courtroom. Irene thrived in the city, even if she never looked fully awake in any of her social media posts. You didn’t care much for city life and its exhausting churn.

_Remember to save Irene’s number. Again._

“Mum called me, frantic that you didn’t call or text to say you were okay. She watched the news. The tornado rattled her. Your phone was off the whole day. I had to clear a whole day’s worth of meetings because her angina was acting up.” Irene was rambling in her monotone.

_Angina isn’t a disease._

Irene paused as if she’d heard what you’d thought. Then she took a breath. You could practically picture her working her jaw muscles as she fought the urge to get emotional. “Call mum.”

_Call mum._

The distance between you and Irene wasn’t consolidated to the miles between your cities. Irene was prickly, like a cactus. Maybe that’s why you had so much trouble growing them. But she was also the only person on the I-95 highway who stopped to pick up a wounded iguana on her cross-country trip that winter you moved into your apartment. That iguana was Spike. That was also the first and last time Irene ever stepped foot in your apartment. And the second time you’d deleted her phone number.

“Or at the very least, post one of those disturbing pictures of Spike dressed in baby clothes,” Irene’s tone turned condescending. There was some chatted on her end of the line. “I’m needed in the chamber.”

_No rush saving her number. _You swallowed the last spoonful of food before dumping your bowl in the sink. Then you opened the balcony door to let Spike back in.

A third beep. Another message.

“Dr Y/N?” the voice on the other end of the line was now very familiar to you. For a second, you wondered if you were still dreaming. “Dr Stephen Strange. The _relief. _I got your number from the on-call sheet. Just letting you know I got the go ahead first thing this morning to prep for the transplant. I’ll be the chief surgeon on staff. Marcy is in the best hands. Literally. I’ll see you at work.”

_Ask about the transplant. _You head shot up so fast you were convinced it’d crack like an Indiana Jones style bullwhip. _Transplant?_

“Marcy…” you mumbled before rushing to get to the shower. Just then another message played. The last. On it, Mike told you he was on his way to pick you up and that you should do something, but you weren’t paying much attention at that point. You had less than five minutes before he arrived.

Your shower was cold and quick. About half-way through, you realised the conditioner was practically empty. No time to fully detangle your bed-head knots, you raked your fingers through and washed all the shampoo away, making sure to add a little styling crème so your hair wouldn’t look like frizzy from the summer humidity.

You made sure to grab your go-bag, keys and lock the balcony door before rushing out the door just as Mike pulled into the driveway.

Mike had dark circles under his eyes, wind tousled hair that was still damp in places and an outstretched hand dangling out the car window with a coffee flask waiting expectantly.

You grabbed it and hastily made your way to the passenger side.

“Thanks,” you said out of breath as you unscrewed the cap and took a swig. Mike looked at you with a perplexed expression. When no coffee touched your tongue it was your turn to look back at Mike with a similar expression. “It’s empty.”

Mike nodded, “I know it’s empty.”

“Why’d you give me an empty flask?”

“Because you were supposed to make the coffee.

“Then you should have told me to.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

Mike stared at you with a knowing look for a second too long. He sighed, rubbing his red eyes, “You didn’t listen to the whole voice message did you?”

You opened your mouth to retort but then you realised Mike was right. You clicked your tongue, “We can stop by the café near the intersection.”

“You’re buying,” Mike put the car in drive while you tried your best to distract yourself from thinking about Marcy.

“Tell me something new.”

You got dressed into the maroon scrubs in the locker room. Your lanyard feeling particularly heavy that day. Maybe you weren’t as ready for today as you thought you were.

You had hoped and prayed to whatever constituted as a god on any particular day that Marcy would get a new lung. A healthy lung. And that she’d finally get to experience her youth, but now your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your heart was so loud you wanted to scream just to shut it up.

But today was here and you only had the one heart, so you made a fist, took a long, deep breath and ran towards the OR.

Bach in C minor was playing over the sound of the heart-lung machine. There had been a slight pause when you walked into the OR mid-surgery, but everything continued without fail.

You knew, logically, that observing from the theatre was the right thing to do. The impartial thing to do. But this wasn’t any patient. This was Marcy. The girl you helped with her science homework that one weekend she came in for a check-up and stayed for a minor surgical procedure. The girl you watched rerun’s on cable TV with when you had the night shift. The girl you watched grow up.

Doctor Weisz was among the medical staff in the room. Strange didn’t bother looking away from Marcy’s open chest cavity.

“I don’t remember calling for a second pair of hands,” Strange said as if he was talking to himself. “Did you Doctor?”

Doctor Weisz’s words came out muffled behind her mask, “No.” She kept an impressive straight face. Come to think of it, you had never seen her smile. Or get angry. She was always professional. Even her haircut was a choice of convenience; short and slicked back.

You stepped out from behind Strange’s frame and moved in closer to Marcy. It was a little unsettling how normal she looked in a hospital gown with the elastic of her breathing mask drawing two red lines across her cheeks. The open chest cavity was different though. Unsightly.

Your fingers trembled, reaching out to hold her open palm lying flat on the table when the sudden loud beeping of the heart rate monitor shook you to action.

A squirt of blood sprayed out, turning the sterile blue operating gowns dark with plasma.

“She’s bleeding,” Strange noted as if reading a catalogue. “There’s too much scar tissue.”

“BP is dropping. Fast,” Mike said. You hadn’t even noticed him in the room.

“Clamps,” Doctor Weisz’s hand was stretched expectantly to the fellow behind her.

Your feet were glued in place, like a statue with open eyes that couldn’t look away, just watching. Your brain yelled at you to snap out of it, let your training take over, set your emotions to backburner. But none of it worked.

“Someone get her out of my OR!” Strange’s composure shifted for the first time. It was then that you noticed your hand was holding tightly onto Marcy’s.

Just as Strange instructed, someone grabbed your hand and pulled towards the doors. Once you were out in the bright hallway you realised it was Mike.

In the last couple of hours, you had treated a kid with tonsillitis, a man with a hangnail and one skateboarder with a concussion.

_Why’d today have to be a slow day? _

You sighed as you flipped through a medical chart Arlene had handed over for a second pair of eyes to go over.

“You said she came in with a fever?”

Arlene stammered before straightening her spine, “Y-yes.”

You kept quiet for a few seconds, waiting for Arlene to jump on cue and finish telling you the symptoms. She didn’t.

“Arlene?”

“Yes?” She looked up, big eyes fully attentive. Her innocence was endearing, but if not grown out of, it’d be a hindrance in this profession.

“This is usually when you fill me in.”

“Oh, right,” she fumbled with her chart. “Uh…loss of appetite, abdominal cramps and joint paint.”

“What’s your diagnosis?” You looked up at the wall clock, watching the hands tick.

Arlene fidgeted, “M-my diagnosis? I um…” She wiped her forehead as if there was sweat on it. “Cramps, fever and joint pain could be…stomach flu?”

“Viral gastroenteritis, yes,” you agreed with her diagnosis. “Treatment?”

Arlene was getting more confident, “Rehydration Solution, anti-viral—”

“Good, do it,” You excused yourself when you spotted Mike walking down the hall. The surgery was done.

“Mike!” You caught his attention. “So…how’d it go?”

Mike tried to miss eye contact, “She’s stable. Transplant wrapped up okay.”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Mike rushed to place his hands on your elbows. “Marcy’s fine, taking well to the lung. She’s on assisted breathing until the rupture heals and the pressure is relieved on her muscles. She will have to stay in Recovery for longer but she’ll pull through.”

You laughed, a bright smile beaming over your face, “Then what’s the issue?”

Mike bit his lip, “Strange recommended to Weisz that you be put on probation for the time being.

Anger rushed unexpectedly, “What?”

Stephen suddenly appeared down the hallway. You marched over to him. He looked at you, expecting your oncoming aggression.

“You recommended I be put on probation?” You folded your arms to seem imposing.

Stephen glanced knowingly at Mike. Mike shrugged before disappearing into the lounge.

“God, you’re insufferable!” You flashed back to your dream and now you were confused as to what exactly you should be feeling.

“And if today is any indication, you’re too emotional,” he said softly.

You baulked, feeling insulted, “Too emotional?”

He rubbed his neck, “I told you about the operation out of professional courtesy. You had no right to barge into my OR and distract from the procedure. You put a bad foot forward, unprofessional. Weisz agreed. I suggested temporary probation to prevent Weisz from dealing a worse blow.”

You scoffed, “So you were helping me, is that it?”

“Yes,” he sounded on edge. “You’re too raw to be working right now. If I was your superior, I wouldn’t be assured that you could competently manage the rigorous expectations of the workplace.”

“Unbelievable, you really do walk around thinking you know everything, that your word is final. Mike was right, you have no reason to overstep your boundaries. You’re the _relief_, not my boss,” You threw your arms up in the air, ignoring the other residents listening in.

Stephen sighed, pushing passed you, ending the argument prematurely.¨

“Where are you going?” You demanded, following in stride.

“To get a drink,” he pressed his eyelids. “If you insist on still handing me my ass, you are welcome to join.”

You stalled for a second then decided to continue your squabble.

**To be continued...**


	5. Asystole Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sorry this chapter is short :) _

During the entire walk from the hospital to one of your regular haunts, you had taken every chance you could to vet your frustrations and admonish Stephen on every single little thing that had gotten under your skin in the time since he’d arrived. He said nothing the entire time, a look of exhaustion out of place on his usually professional demeanour.

“And to think I always thought Christine was exaggerating about how—” You realised Stephen was no longer beside you when you reached the bar entrance. Instead he was stopped two feet from you, looking up at the weathered bar sign. The bar itself wasn’t anything special—no flashy lights or thematic décor—a hole in the wall would be the best description. Its neighbourhood fairly quiet and unexciting.

“Why am I not surprised that _this_ is where you chose to bring me?” Stephen sounded humoured.

“First my town’s too predictable and now…what, you don’t like my bars too?” You scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

You opened the door and waited for Stephen to enter first, “Come on, drinks aren’t going to bring themselves to you.” You waved him along.

Stephen smirked and then traded places holding the door, “Ladies firs—”

You had already marched in before he could finish his line.

“Tiny, two drinks, one vodka lime and a beer. Make sure it’s warm, from the crate,” you shrugged off your coat as the bartender got working on your order. Stephen followed after you, quizzical brow pulling down at the mention of warm beer, but he didn’t question it.

When the drinks were ready, you collected them from the bar counter and plopped the warm beer in front of Stephen. Sipping on the vodka like it was a fine wine. Stephen cocked a brow and then chuckled to himself, swirling the beer bottle.

“Is this you teaching me a lesson?”

You hummed as you took another sip, “Yup. Drink up Dr Specialist Neurosurgeon From Metro Gen. It’s on me.”

Stephen took a sip and frowned. You laughed to yourself. Wanting to humour you, Stephen took another sip.

“Have you always been so high strung?” You asked him.

He looked you over as if he’d seen something new, “You tell me.” He leaned in across the table.

“See that,” you circled tour finger around his smirk. “Being all coy and avoiding my question by asking another one, that tells me yes.”

“You have me all figured out then?”

“About as figured out as you had me on the first day we met.”

“Ahh,” he took another swig, “this little conversation’s been brewing a while now, I see.”

“You bet it has,” you downed your drink and ordered another.

Four more drinks in, more than a mouthful of opinionated words to throw at Stephen, and you were slurring your words. He was still nursing that first beer.

“See, one egotistical narcissist I could handle. Mike s brilliant but at least he knows his limitations, but _you,_” you pointed your finger at Stephen, he simply batted his eyes in response. “You come here and throw everything upside down. On its head. A big mess. With your quaffed hair and designer watch and…and—”

You shut your eyes for a second, words slipping from the tip of your tongue.

“Narcissist?” He still had that trademark smirk on. “I thought I was a pompous ass two seconds ago, and an insufferable jerk before that?”

“Yes, well, they’re versatile—_you’re_ versatile. Narcissists I mean.”

You lifted a finger, feeling the loss of the bitter lemon and alcohol blend in your mouth. Stephen held your finger as if shielding the room from the devastation of a finger wiggle.

You laughed, feeling the warmth of Stephen’s palm to be all too comforting. Intimate. He smiled at you and said, “I think it’s time we got you home.”

“Why?” You challenged, yanking your finger away. “It’s not like I have work in the morning.”

Stephen put the bottle down, “Yes, but I do.”

Anger flashed hot in your belly; or maybe it was the booze, “God! Every time I think I can stand you—understand you—you say something like that.”

“I’m an acquired taste,” he winked.

You snorted, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

You scooched out of your sear and stumbled to the door. Stephen righted you and draped an arm around your shoulder. You told him you didn’t need his help, called him a few extra choice words, and he just smiled as though he were sitting through a medical seminar. You had the strong urge to elbow him in the gut and wipe the smile off his face.

“Easy now,” Stephen held your back as you got a spell of vertigo going up the stairs.

“I got it, I got it,” you shoved with no grip.

You fumbled around for your keys, then after a minute of checking and rechecking pockets, a clinking noise sounded out behind you.

Stephen held the keys, “Looking for these?”

“Yes,” you slurred your S’s.

Stephen dangled the keys next to your nose and swooped them away when you reached out. He laughed as you collided with his chest on clumsy feet. You elbowed him weakly, but to the expected result. It was your turn to laugh as you stole your keys away.

Once you got the door open, Stephen said: “Goodnight.”

“Wait,” you spun around. “Seeing as how I don’t have work tomorrow, I have one more thing to get out of my system.”¨

You crooked your finger and Stephen complied and took the two steps between you in one step.

“Another lecture?” He tilted his head to the side.

“Nope,” you popped your P’s as you stood on tippy toes. “This.”

You braced his face, palms running almost as hot as your chest, as kissed him. Lightly, nothing hungry or feverish about the kiss itself, but a spark tickled you’re the nape of your neck. Bristling as if with a cushion of static.

Stephen was taken aback but some of the stiffness in how he held himself loosened up. That rigidity of his posture and character chipped away the faintest bit. You leaned in deeper, taken with the sensation. You’d kissed countless times, but not like this. It wasn’t simply physical, it ran stronger than that. Something told you it wasn’t just an inkling of the connection you could grow to share if you saw eye to eye, but also of _him_.

In all your years, you’d always had a knack of feeling the spaces between the mind and what you could only describe as the soul. In a handshake, a graze of the fingertips, a glance…a kiss. 

Stephen sparked different than his mind. He was methodical, yet…luminously fluid. Powerful of current, but bound behind the shackles of his dogma: logic.

To put it simply, Stephen’s touch—his mind, his spirit, the very heat of his breath against your lips between the pauses of the kiss—radiated like fireflies in the moonlight. Like magic.

When the kiss broke, you gasped. Stephen looked dumbfounded, a marvellously hilarious look if the feeling running through you wasn’t so strong.

Stephen touched the tips of his fingers to his lips. You did too. There was electricity there.

“Wow,” you whispered.

“That—” Stephen tried to regain composure. “That wasn’t what I thought you needed to get out of your system.”

You wished you could say you were surprised by your actions, that it was the alcohol and midnight air full of heady promise, but it wasn’t. Not entirely. Stephen may have been a pompous ass with a brilliant mind and a swagger to how he walked, but god damn if that wasn’t also what drew you to him.

_Oh, _you thought. _So that is what Christine saw in him._

Stephen’s feet moved an inch closer to you, but his hands were balled by his sides now. He looked down at you with that expression he had in the bar—eyes filled with the realisation of discovery.

You held your breath, hoping he’d be the one to lean in and reinitiate the kiss. He didn’t. You were surprisingly disappointed.

“I—goodnight…” he cleared his throat and walked away as if someone was following after him.

You giggled, the tingling on your neck now tickling your lips, “Strange.”

Whether you were calling after him on impulse or simply noting the weird energy about the kiss, you couldn’t tell. Cool air stinging your flush cheeks.

And then your stomach turned.

**To be continued...**


End file.
